eye key ah

Since moving in June, the PC is in the basement. It's on a cluttered desk also holding the dehumidifyer, an item I've never owned before. I never had a room inclined to moisture that didn't have an exhaust fan in the ceiling and a toilet. In fact, I've mostly lived in buildings that needed moisture added. My room in graduate school was so parched, I would put a bowl of water on the radiator each night and it would evaporate while I slept. If it's not odd enough that we elected to put our most expensive electronic item next to an item that absorbs water, the chair at the desk is surely enough to make anyone take notice. It's one of the small chairs from my 5 year old son's drawing table. In the first weeks of classes, I would go down to the basement to get laundry or bring Lucio some tea and there he'd sit, a 35 year old man with a human development text book propped up on his knees which were 13 inches below the keyboard.

Lucio is never going to move the computer to the larger table I've suggested. It's not his nature to be concerned about this sort of thing and I think he actually uses the discomfort to keep himself awake. But after 4 weeks of classes, it now bothers me. I decide I will go to Ikea and buy him a new rolling chair. I will make his desk more appealing because isn't that what a nice wife should do. I will do this because I sold the old rolling desk chair at the garage sale when me moved in June so maybe this is my fault. I arrive home with the new chair in a box. I ask Lucio to get it out of the car. He asks, "What is this for? We have a rolling desk chair."
"We do?"
"Yes."
"I thought we sold it at the garage sale. Where is it?"
"In the back of the garage. Been there the whole time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"So you're sitting at the little chair on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's ridiculous. You cannot be comfortable like that."
"I am fine."
"But you look ridiculous."
"Who cares how I look?"
"I do."
"I don't."
"Well, that's stupid. Can you get the rolling chair and use that."
"As you wish," he tells me, leaving me feeling way more annoyed than Buttercup anyday.
"

With a forced smile, I say a quick, "Thank you."

He doesn't look back, but I hear, "Happy wife. Happy life."

"Oh. Well, I can return the chair. Maybe we can go to Ikea together? I'd like you to see this ottoman."

Having managed to get his attention, He says the old rolling chair has a tear in the seam and maybe we do need this new chair. I ask him to show me. The tear is small and can be fixed. But now Lucio doesn't want me to make him go to Ikea. I assure him I will not make him go.

Deflated, we put the box back in the car. And there it sits for a week or so. Finally, I have work that will take me near enough to Ikea that I can make it work. I love the idea of Ikea. I am the wife and the idea end of our agreement. I know the execution end of the relationship does not share my love for Ikea. He still laments the day I found the corner computer unit with doors and storage in 2004. He swore he'd never take that thing apart after 17 pages of that little cartoon person mocking him through 57 separate instructions. We bought it at the Ikea in College Park, MD when Jack was born in 2004. We've moved twice since then and I am looking right at it. And now it's been painted. My idea. Much softer and it really works with the furniture now.

So, I get to Ikea, I don't have the time or funds to do anything more than make my return. I march in, pushing my cart with the chair, take number and wait. Number 12. There is one person behind a counter assisting a customer. The red sign above says they are serving Number 11. Lookin good. But there's a woman in front of me with a living room contained in three large boxes. I think she has a door or two, and a large mirror and some sort of ottoman. She is certainly in front of me. But she is not being helped, so I gather she is not Number 11. I remain quiet. Not my fault living room lady cannot follow instructions.
Number 11 is not going quickly. Living room is starting to to rock back and forth. Huffing and breathing rather deliberately. She catchs my eye.
Rolling her eyes, she tells me "This is a nightmare."
I choose silence.
She says it again.
More eye rolling and watch checking. She is now on her tiptoes looking towards the doors.
"I had to practically take my car apart to get this stuff in it and now my car is open. This is a nightmare."
Still I am silent. She left her car open? What does that mean? Who does that on purpose?
More huffing. More puffing.
"I have to get my kids. I have to leave this here. I have to leave. This is a nightmare."

Really? Where the fuck are your kids, lady? In the open car waiting to be stolen along with your GPS?

I silently congratulate myself for not engaging this lunatic and even try on a smoosh of empathy as no one has ever accused me of being overly patient.

Sidebar that proves my point - Julie and I were in Walgreens one time and we SWORE we were being punked because there was this man with coupons at the photo lab counter who had the wrong dental floss for the coupon. And then the wrong toothpaste. And then the wrong size. And the check out lady at the front was in her early 100's and was actually scanning items while sitting in a lawn chair. Really?
I can totally go back there as long as grandma is not working. Or after December when I assume she'll have forgotten completely that I was, um, vocally impatient.

Huffi Puffinster is really pulling out all the stops now.

Just don't make eye contact. All I can think is please leave your paid for stuff here. Please. I can find something to do with the doors and mirror, and I know that's the ottoman I wanted anyway. Hell, I'll leave the doors there for someone else to have. I just want the ottoman.

After about 5 minutes, number 11 is done.
"Number 12," calls the yellow and blue clad Ikea employee.
"That's me," I call, standing up.
Huffi Puffy implodes. "No way! I WAS HERE FIRST! YOU KNOW I WAS! WHAT THE HELL - THIS PLACE IS A NIGHTMARE!"

I smile and nod. "By all means, ma'am. Please go first" I say in my quietest extremely superior elitist voice I usually save only for my mother on the 4th day of her 7 day visits.

She bought the damn stuff on her debit card and had to get reimbursed in cash. That almost killed her. A couple more puffs and she is RUNNING out of the store, literally screaming "EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GET MY CHILDREN."

Like they are outside playing hopscotch with Manson.

"Number 12."

I walk up. I hand Ms. Ikea my receipt and say. "Hello. I'd like to return this item. And I am sorry you had to deal with that woman."

Oh, man, I love my moments of elitism.

Judge all you want - we all do it.

Miss Ikea smiles at me. "Her? She'll be back. She forgot her car keys," she says motioning to the keys on the counter. WHich she promptly picks up and tosses in the cart with all the stuff Huffybitch returned.

Turning on my heel with my receipt, I walk swiftly towards to door.

And there she is - screaming from the back of her Escalade that she cannot find her FUCKING KEYS!!!


I stop to fill out a compliment form about Miss Ikea. I hope she gets a raise.
And I pointed her out to Lucio the following Saturday when we were there to buy the ottoman.